The Keeper

by Catriona King

  Craig shifted his gaze from the vicar and scrutinised the woman’s face. It was small and round; plain but not unpleasant. For a second he wondered if she and Rowan Lindsay had had a thing. They would probably never know and it didn’t matter anyway; they were just two lonely people who’d found each other in mid-life.

  “Did you visit him at his flat often, Mrs Dodds?” She blushed and he suddenly realised what his words had implied. “I meant purely as a friend of course.”

  Mollified, she allowed herself a little smile. “I did. I bake you see, and make my own jam, so I often brought some for him.”

  “Did you ever meet his sons when you visited?” He glanced at the cleric. “Either of you?”

  McConville’s eyes widened in surprise. “I wasn’t aware that he had any family. He always seemed such a solitary man.”

  Hazel Dodds nodded quietly. “I knew of his two sons; he showed me their photographs. But they rarely contacted him as far as I know.”

  Broken families were one of The Troubles’ rarely discussed legacies; yet more victims of that chaotic time.

  Craig gazed at the church’s pine floor for a moment and then at Liam to see if there was anything they’d forgotten to ask. When the answer was no he rose to his feet.

  “Thank you for your help. We’ll need you to go to High Street Station and be fingerprinted, Reverend. I believe that Mrs Dodds has already given hers?” She nodded shyly. “Just to eliminate them from any that we might find in Mr Lindsay’s flat.”

  They parted with a flurry of “certainlys” and “goodbyes” and a moment later the investigators were back on the street walking towards Craig’s car. Liam broke the silence.

  “Well, that was a whole heap of useless.”

  “You think?”

  “Don’t you? Put it this way, what did you learn that you didn’t already know?”

  “That Rowan Lindsay really had reformed and that he’d collected some very unpleasant non-paramilitary enemies along the way.”

  ****

  Belfast City Centre.

  Annette couldn’t believe her luck getting a GP appointment on a Saturday. When she’d trained as a nurse GPs’ weekends had been filled doing home visits, but it made far more sense to keep the surgery open and save their visits for the very ill.

  She felt guilty being there when she could have been working, but she’d been so ill all week that finally she’d conceded that Craig was right. She had to sort herself out or she’d be useless to anyone. As she sat in reception, flicking through back issues of Good Housekeeping and The People’s Friend, she ran through her possible diagnoses in her head. She was tired, no, exhausted all the time. Limp hair, dry skin and she’d gained back nearly all of the eighteen pounds that she’d lost the year before. It didn’t take a genius to work out what was wrong; it was either her age or her thyroid gland had suddenly given up the ghost.

  Mike had checked her thyroid but she’d read on the internet that symptoms could precede blood results by months, so she’d submitted herself to a fresh round of tests by the practice nurse and was resigned to being told she was either menopausal or would be taking thyroxine tablets for the rest of her life.

  She refused to allow her mind to go to the other diagnosis that the nurse had skirted around. Cancer. It would account for most if not all of her symptoms and any variation could be explained by there being lots of cancers that presented in almost the same way.

  As she sat in the waiting room mentally redrafting her Will; she’d had one for years but she really needed to tweak it now that Pete had gone; she suddenly became aware of someone waving at her from across the room. Already preparing an investigative reason for why she was there, in case it was one of her neighbours, she looked up to see that the waver was now standing in front of her chair.

  “Ms Eakin?”

  The woman extended a hand and smiled warmly. “I’m Doctor Brody. Please come this way.”

  Annette followed slowly, dragging her feet so hard she was surprised sparks of static didn’t fly up from the rug. But there was no escape. One minute later she was facing the doctor across her desk and in two she was lying on the floor.

  “Ms Eakin, are you all right?”

  Annette’s clouded vision became a hail of pinpoint lights, then the doctor’s face reappeared and a cup of cold water was thrust into her hand.

  “You fainted.”

  As the GP helped her to the couch Annette remembered why, and only the fact that she was horizontal stopped her from collapsing all over again.

  ****

  Arthur ‘Dusty’ Wilson didn’t rise or look up as the detectives entered his office in Belfast’s Rosemary Street, despite his secretary’s polite cough announcing their presence or the fact that two broad shouldered men over six feet tall had darkened his sunny mid-afternoon office to a premature dusk. Instead he continued tapping on his smart-pad, checking the runners and riders for that afternoon with barely concealed ennui. Whether his boredom stemmed from the week’s poor showing at Kempton Park, his disdain for the police or his general malaise about life, they would probably never know, and frankly Craig didn’t give a toss. The psychological state of a thug like Wilson didn’t keep him awake at night.

  His hands itched to grab the UFU boss by his lapels and shove him out the small window behind his desk, but his years of experience said to wait for Wilson’s ‘tell’ and then slip into the gap. They didn’t have long to wait. Dusty Wilson wasn’t as cool as he obviously thought because two minutes into the oppressive silence he couldn’t resist a covert glance at the two cops. Craig seized the moment and leaned forward on the desk so that he and the Belfast gangster were nose to nose, turning it into a staring contest where either man glancing away would be seen as a clear loss.

  After a few seconds it became clear to Wilson that there was nothing else for it but to speak, so the gang boss’ staring disdain became a wave towards two chairs, and his press on the intercom ordered them not to be disturbed. That was to be the limit of Wilson’s hosting politeness as his words very soon made clear.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  Liam tutted slowly and shook his head from side to side. “Don’t you mean what the fuck do you want, Officers? Give a man his title at least.”

  Wilson’s small eyes tightened making them look like dots in his doughy, pock marked face. After a brief silence Craig got fed up waiting for him to think up a clever retort and cut straight to the chase.

  “Billy Hart.”

  Wilson gave him a cool look.

  “What about him?”

  “He owed you money. Yes or no?”

  The usurer considered for a moment as the two detectives watched. Was he thinking about Craig’s use of tense, clearly implying that Hart’s debt and possibly Billy Hart himself was in the past? And if he was would he mention it? Revealing as it might that he had already known that Billy Hart was dead. The death hadn’t been reported in the media so that could only mean one thing; Wilson had been involved in Hart’s death or he knew the man who had been.

  Or was the mogul just considering whether to lie and mess with the police. Sticking to the adage ‘Treat them like mushrooms’. AKA, keep them in the dark and feed them crap.

  Wilson’s answer gave little away.

  “What business of that is yours?”

  It could have been a bluff and if they’d had all day to waste they could have hauled Wilson’s ass into custody and worn him down, but they didn’t so Craig decided to give him a clue.

  “He’s dead.”

  Wilson’s response wasn’t one that either policeman had expected. Instead of shock or a guilty flicker that said he’d already known, he laughed. For far too long. No-one laughs about losing money so they needed to find out what it was about.

  Craig raised an eyebrow. “You find losing ninety grand amusing?”

  Liam chipped in. “’Cos I always love it myself.”

  The gang boss laughed again and then explained. “I never lose m
oney, you morons. I check my customers’ assets before I lend them a penny – my loans are secured on Hart’s house, so even if he is dead I’ll get repaid.”

  He hadn’t revealed if he’d known Hart was dead before they’d told him. Clever avoidance or did he really not think that a debtor’s death was relevant? Craig pushed harder.

  “So it doesn’t matter to you whether your customers are alive or dead, except that the dead ones pay more quickly.”

  The moneylender shrugged. “Maybe they do, but that doesn’t mean I’d kill them for it. Think on this. Why would I risk going to jail when I can just make them sell their house?”

  He stood up, revealing that the lengthy torso that had made him look tall behind the desk was paired with legs so short that they could’ve belonged to a kid. Liam just knew that ‘stumpy’ had been his nickname at school.

  “Now, as you can’t prove I knew Billy was dead before you told me, or even that I believe you now that he is, I think our business is done.” He yanked open the door. “Lacey, these two gentlemen are leaving and I’m heading over to The Merchant for lunch.”

  They were left with a confused looking secretary and an empty room.

  ****

  The C.C.U. 3 p.m.

  Jake was going stir crazy after working with the analysts for two hours. He needed to escape the squad-room before Andy reappeared and gave him yet more calls to make, so he headed for Geoff Hammill’s office on the fifth floor, tentatively fingering the swelling on his face. He wondered why he’d bothered to even as he did; the bruise was hardly going to have shrunk since his last prod.

  With each step down the five flights his confusion about his lover deepened. He’d been with Aaron for ten years and he loved him. He stopped mid-flight and thought about it for a moment. Yes, he did still love him, but it was tinged with something else now. Gratitude? No, it definitely wasn’t that nice.

  Yes he felt grateful for Aaron’s support during his granddad’s illness, but that was diminishing every day; he’d made him feel bad for putting his granny first since his death and that had made his gratitude sour. Into what? Had it changed to hatred; was that the something else he felt? He shut his eyes for a moment trying to name his feelings, as people passed by on the stairs wondering who the bruised, immobile nutter was.

  Finally he decided. It wasn’t hatred; he’d never hated anyone. Then he recognised the emotion. It was guilt! He felt guilty about Aaron, but why the heck should he feel guilty about someone who’d been using him as a punch bag for weeks? If anything Aaron should feel guilty for hitting him! He’d descended another flight when he stopped again, more abruptly this time as realisation dawned. He suddenly understood why Aaron had been so violent and it had nothing to do with his gambling debts. Aaron was lashing out because of jealousy. He saw his grandmother as some sort of threat!

  Jake pictured the woman who’d tucked him in bed at night all through his childhood: impish and wise, and growing tinier by the year. Tears pricked at his green eyes; he loved her and she needed him now that she was alone. He loved her. He repeated the thought again and again until he’d added, ‘more than anyone’ and had his answer. He loved his grandmother more than anyone including Aaron, and Aaron had seen it from the start.

  He sat down heavily on the stone steps. How long had Aaron known what he hadn’t? That in a choice between them as a couple or his love for his surrogate mother, their romance would always lose. Months probably; at least twelve; since the diagnosis of cancer had entered all of their lives.

  He tightened a fist in anger; OK, so he would always put her first but why did Aaron have to turn it into a competition? Surely they could all have got along, him loving them both, until one day… He shook his head violently, not wanting to think about it, the day he lost her and was really an orphan, only saved from the label after his parents’ death by his father’s mum and dad.

  But why was Aaron competing? It wasn’t as if he’d met another man. She was an eighty-year-old woman, for God’s sake. The question answered itself; he was competing because he was insecure and weak and because he just didn’t want to share his time. Not his love, Aaron always known that his granny had that and he used to say that he loved him more because of it. But he didn’t want to share his time; the hours at weekends when they’d lounged in bed or strolled through the park to the pub, to have lunch and read the papers. The evenings lying together on the sofa just watching a DVD. They were long gone, replaced by hospital vigils and shopping trips, drives to visit relatives and keeping his granny company. But couldn’t Aaron have just waited? Been patient? How many more years would she be on this earth and then he would have him one hundred percent again. Aaron and Jake, the way that it had been for years.

  He already knew that the answer was no. His lover’s patience had run out and he needed to be number one in his world again, not play second fiddle to an old lady. It wasn’t personal, anyone who’d taken time away from their coupledom would have made him feel the same; jealous and insecure, but at least if it had been another man he wouldn’t feel so disappointed in Aaron now.

  Jake pulled himself up by the handrail and thudded down another flight, his feelings changing again to include disgust. Love, disgust and guilt; what a combination. They made uneasy bedfellows and not all of them would survive. Aaron must have known that and it had made him even more insecure. Jake knew then that his partner had feared not only losing his time but eventually losing his love, and in that moment he also knew that he’d been right.

  Disappointment and disgust were killing his love and the guilt he was feeling was a sign that things between them were nearing an end. Jake’s guilt worsened immediately at the thought of ending things and he knew that was why, even though Aaron was being violent, he’d allowed it to continue despite the pain and the impact on his job. He’d felt that he’d deserved it somehow. After all it was his grandparents who’d come between them, after years when they’d been each other’s number one. But it couldn’t go on any longer. He couldn’t be a punch bag just to make up for his guilt.

  As he reached the fifth floor and pushed his way through the doors to Geoff Hammill’s office, the sergeant made up his mind. Tonight he would tell Aaron they needed a break from each other and tomorrow he would move back into his grandmother’s house.

  ****

  The Antrim Road. 3.p.m.

  The Keeper had watched as Gerry Murnaghan was dropped off at the kerb, and as he’d fumbled his keys into the lock of the small cottage that he’d once shared with his wife. The liveried police car had parked fifty metres further on, just far enough not to be visible from the cottage windows; its occupants reclining in their seats and preparing for the long haul. Fine, he could wait all day and night as well, if he had to. Murnaghan was the last but one on his list and he’d see him in his grave or die in the attempt.

  He viewed the Saturday activities in the narrow suburban street, picturing them being mimicked all over the world. The kids playing in their front gardens and the teenagers slouching by their gates, wearing earphones and peering at their smartphones, in a facsimile of American teen cool. Every one of them wearing the uniform of T-shirt and jeans and thinking how original they looked, but all instantly recognisable as belonging to a tribe named youth. In his day it had been skinny ties and cardigans, but the idea was still the same. Distinguish yourself from the grown-ups and old people, and pity them for not being you.

  He smiled to himself, remembering. Life had been good in Northern Ireland before it had all kicked off. Beatle cuts, winklepickers and queuing at the record shop for the newest L.P. Just normal urban kids. His smile deepened as the next cast member of Suburban Saturday came jogging into view; the chubby mum still trying to run off last Christmas’ excess ten pounds. She was joined by a car washing dad in a house further down and that made the cast complete; just a normal weekend in a normal suburban street. How many of them had known that they’d had killers living in their midst?

  As he poured a black coffee
from his thermos, he noticed the constable in the driver’s seat lift his radio to take a call, but any hope that he would drive away was dashed by what happened next. An armoured car, chequer striped in yellow and blue, parked opposite and a man in a dark boiler suit jumped out. He smiled at the Saturday jogger and then leaned in through the window of the car.

  The Keeper tilted his directional mike to hear their words.

  “We’ll take over now, lads. Can you get a car back to relieve us at six? The Super wants Murnaghan watched all weekend.”

  The response was drowned out by the engine being started eagerly but it was clear that the answer had been “yes”. The Keeper sipped his coffee thoughtfully; perhaps it was time for Plan B.

  ****

  “Here. You’re heading for the lab.”

  “Thanks, Sherlock. What gave it away?”

  As they were driving up the Saintfield Road and nothing in the case pointed there, Liam was pretty sure that he was being abused.

  “There’s no need to be sarky.”

  “I’ll remind you of that next time you do it.”

  As the sentence ended Craig turned into the science park. Two minutes later they were in John’s office and Craig was picking his brains.

  “Have you matched the bullets yet?”

  John rolled his eyes. “You asked me that seven hours ago.” Craig’s gaze didn’t waver. “Oh, OK then. We tried but the answer is definitely no. The bullet markings are so minimal they don’t match any weapons in the system.” Liam opened his mouth to ask a question but the pathologist halted him with a raise of his hand. “And before you ask, no, it isn’t in any UK or Irish databases. Davy’s running the European and US databases now but I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

  Liam shook his head. “He’ll have the smurf doing it. The lad likes having an office slave.”

  John frowned. “Smurf?”

  “Liam’s witty term for Ash, an analyst who’s helping us out for a while.”